


The Rules Are Their Religion

by ellamaraschino



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon Non-Binary Character, Drinking, Grief/Mourning, John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum (2019), Other, Overworking, Ruska Roma (John Wick), so i wrote a fic about it, what if ares survived and was in parabellum like wtf that wouldve been awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23102062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamaraschino/pseuds/ellamaraschino
Summary: After surviving the confrontation, Santino's death has not only enraged Ares but scattered her routine as his right hand. Without basis, her only motive lies on revenge. Luckily for some, she isn't worried about getting killed in the process. In comes the Adjudicator who steps in and offers somewhat of a promotion if she uses her thirst for vengeance to complete this tiny, insufferable obstacle in the High Table’s path.
Relationships: Ares/The Adjudicator (John Wick)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Courtesy Call

It was nice for a bit. Death. It was pathetic how it happened but admittedly nice. From the moment the reflective door slid shut and Ares saw her boss for the last time with the arrogant promise of finishing what wasn't hers to finish, something in the back of her self-assured mind nagged annoyingly for her to turn around. Like an angel conscience with a high-pitched voice. But _what kind of coward turns away from a fight?_ thought the devil, and Ares paid for it with her life —

Or so she thought before waking up in the hospital, jacked up on painkillers.

That was when she was told. For a girl who worked her abdomen every morning and could hold more liquor than most men in this business, she nearly vomited upon hearing that her employer was eventually found and shot, not to mention in the safety of the Continental where he stubbornly sat at a dinner table with a smirk and a glass of wine while taunting the Baba Yaga until the bitter end. Untouchable. He always thought he was so untouchable.

With all due respect, he was so fucking stupid.

Winston informed her of John Wick's status even before her phone had and sooner assured her that he would not be returning to the Continental any time soon. But safety wasn't her concern. She was nowhere near ready but by god if she saw him anywhere in this city, she could see herself now. . Manic, enraged, shooting recklessly in his direction and forgetting all the precise training she had learned over these years, too clouded by hatred to think clearly. Then he'd really finish the job.

She isn't in the frame of mind to make any decisions, not now. She needs rest but her body refuses, trembling with anger, so what's _really_ in order is a–

"Can I buy you a drink?" came the haughty, ever so formal tone of the Adjudicator. They stand behind Ares with their chin raised, head then tilting to get a better view of her.

Ares is hunched over the bar with her hands clasped on the mahogany, tie undone and the top three buttons popped off her black undershirt. A few strands of honey highlights have fallen from their slicked back place. Santino would scoff at such a disheveled sight. As if he didn't attend formal events with a mess of chocolate curls and soft smears of lipstick on his neck from mid-party "business conversations" with a random girl he found in a tight dress. Ares smiles to herself.

She has never officially met the Adjudicator face to face. She's only stolen glances, standing with her back against the wall behind Santino's chair during meetings, stone-faced and ready for anything ordered of her. Any opinion of them was unprofessional and unnecessary. She kept her hands still when questioned.

_"What do you make of them?" Santino asked once, lifting a glass of Merlot to his lips at dinner that night._

_[ I don't know. Who was that? ]_

_" **Il giudice**. That was The Adjudicator. The High Table would **fall** without them."_

_Ares only nodded once, merely indicating her understanding._

_"Be alert when they are around, understand?" His eyes flickered up to her, a certain severity to his gaze. "They tolerate no less than full cooperation. The rules are their religion. . But rules can be rewritten._ _. once I inherit a seat."_

_The room around them seemed to leave him, forward stare growing more and more distant with impeding thoughts and ambition that would eventually grow a charged smile to the Italian's face. Ares would often stare at him in suppressed wonder until he'd snap out of it, subtle and with a soft blink or two along with a another swig of red._

_Santino loved to listen to himself talk, learned Ares._

_[ Yes ]_ , she signs lazily. _Be alert, my ass._ The man she answered to is dead.

The Adjudicator promptly takes a seat onto the barstool beside her, legs crossed prim and proper as opposed to Ares who's heel is hooked on the wooden chairleg below her, the other calf dangling off with leisure. The bartender brings out Ares' usual and the noiret gives an 'I've got it' nod that is received respectfully. Authoritative, quick and without pay, this transaction.

"It was _unfortunate_ to hear of Mr. D'antonio's murder. Though brief, he was a valued member of Camorra." The words spoken quickly, like they practiced over and over and over again so it wouldn't seem forced. That or lying just comes easy to them because Ares knows for a fact that they are.

Santino wasn't a man of obedience. He was more of an obstinate, petulant teenager at the least. But Ares knew him and his methods for years, that was his business strategy. With that and his god-given reputation as a D'antonio, almighty and influential, being persistent and unflexible got him everywhere. Except when it mattered. Except when he fucked with the wrong man. Except when the minute he was told no, he burned down John Wick's fucking house.

Ares throws back her drink as a response.

"He seemed peaceful." continues the other.

Ares' eyes narrow. Are they trying to _brew_ something within her? What's the point of that? She rotates her chair to face the Adjudicator, brow furrowed in wordless question. Full face revealed, there is still dried blood caked under her nose, stopping just above her mouth.

"His body." they clarify with a nod and bright eyes. Unashamed of absolutely anything. Ares envies that.

It takes a moment to finally inquire but Ares eventually gives in to her curiosity with that last remark.

 _[ How do you know that? ]_ Ares asks. Were they _there_ when it happened?

"I wanted to see it. Analytical purposes, of course."

There is now a silence between the two, both gazing deep into the other with different energies conveyed from each — Ares is struggling to see what the Adjudicator and the High Table want her to do while the other seems cool and collected, making mere conversation.

They break the silence. Ares sure wasn't going to.

"But I'm sure you are aware of John Wick becoming excommunicado yesterday, does this delight you?" comes the fast-spoken, paramount voice that they began this exchange with. It's almost charming in an odd, specific way that you could only agree with if you saw what the Adjudicator looked like: Compelling eyes, lithe frame, a potent and controlled stride of leather and noir vinyl, an elegance unmatched by many due to how, instead of pretending as such, the Adjudicator _is_ elegance. Pure and distilled. They aren't just playing dress up to appear that way.

 _The Adjudicator_ is untouchable. Everything Santino wanted to be.

_[ I'm still processing it. ]_ Ares admits, turning back to her drink and occupying her hands with the glass.

"Will you be on the battlefield when you are done?" Ash blue irises flicker over Ares' now tensing fingers. They ask as if she hasn't envisioned countless scenarios, innumerable ways she'd end his life when in reality she'll probably only use a bullet and get it over with. She doesn't even want the money, she doesn't think.

Ares purses her lips. _[ More likely than not. ]_

"Excellent. And I suggest you speed up your mourning process as much as possible because you are needed far more now beyond Santino's side."

Ares turns to them and straightens her posture, now staring the other down. _[ What do you mean? ]_

The Adjudicator lifts their chin, seemingly having gained the answer they've been looking for, the key to a new proposition. Seconds of pondering pass before–

"Would you mind having this talk in private?"

* * *

The two stand in Ares' empty room, devoid of listening ears and flies on the wall. The subject matter is no secret but it's far easier to have a conversation without the night owl _hoo_ s of a quiet bar room filled with assassins. And honestly, at this point, who knows how many people you can trust? The hotel faculty were and possibly are buddy-buddy with the man, neither of them trust as such.

Their offer is blunt and to-the-point. "I want you to work with me on this task. You'll of course received the aforementioned recompense and will also be considered a friend of the High Table."

_[ Do you really think that matters to me? Or the money? ]_

"No, I don't suppose it would. But it does make life easier for some, I'd say."

_[ You've never tested my qualifications before tonight. Why do you want my help? ]_

"You were Santino's right hand. It seems only fair that you're offered a say in this operation."

_[ I don't need a charity case. ]_

"This is a courtesy call. Say no and I will leave you to your own decisions on his hit. I'm providing you far more resources and far more weapons at your disposal. I'm a very busy person and I haven't got all day so if you'd be so kind, Ares."

The confronted stares at them with a hardening gaze. She has two choices: Move on from this entire situation, seek work elsewhere, take out entirely new hits, leave the inevitable danger of this man behind her. Or avenge the man who's given her purpose all these years.

"Think of it as continuing your previous assistance. . . What would Santino want?"

Now that's more realistic of him. In all honesty? Santino would want her to go all the fuck out.

_[ I'm interested. ]_

The Adjudicator smiles in satisfaction.

"Pledge your fealty, Ares. ." they murmur, gazing daggers into the other's tired, bloodshot eyes. Without faltering their stare, Ares lifts her hands to speak.

_[ I have served. I will be of service. ]_


	2. If You Want Something Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS DRAFT WAS ACCIDENTALLY POSTED BEFORE COMPLETION. SORRY ABOUT THAT. THIS IS THE CHAPTER.
> 
> Enjoy!

There’s something about overworking yourself into delirium that Ares has always found provoking. Yes, it came with a deal of pain but as does life. Life is suffering. The high, the temptation to continue, calling her name and the  rewards internal and out —  That was what she did it for. Her exhausted body thanked her every time she refuse to give up. She was careful in her work. She ate right, she didn’t do drugs, kept a steady sleep schedule. She refused to let herself go and in return, her immune system flourished. She never got sick. She was constantly in shape. Everybody saw her and what she did to achieve it.

But that behavior started far beyond Santino.

In an aged theater just ten minutes from Winston’s hotel, six if a man were to run for his forfeited life for some reason, Ares’ body of only sixteen year, toned with years of practice, spins effortlessly center stage. She is alone, clad in a black leotard and satin manilla pointe shoes. It is midnight. An empty auditorium is set before her, she preforms for an imaginary audience to a somber piece of multiple strings reverberating softly through the halls while the girls slept. The composition is called Willow. It forms as a lullaby for them and a battle song for Ares, who prances about the wooden stage with purpose and a routine, beads of sweat falling from her forehead like raindrops and glistening the ink beneath the skin on her shoulder blades.

When Madam Director walks through the rows of chairs with a scarlet shawl wrapped around her shoulders, having just woken from slumber, Ares doesn’t pause her performance. And clever is she, the Director wouldn’t expect her to. She merely steps back as the dancer proceeds.

“Onward, [мой ребенок](https://www.wordhippo.com/what-is/the-meaning-of/russian-word-97a738434fe05629ab659508c5d77292e256a738.html)!” she’d say and Ares would practice until sunrise and then practice some more until she’d collapse from the inevitable loss of the sleep that would always catch up to her. You can’t outrun the vitals.

* * *

When she turned seventeen, she began martial arts training. She had previous experience in fighting but it was only sparring and wrestling routinely with a bartender in downtown New York that she knew when she was twelve. She wandered in one day, hungry and on punishment at the dance academy (rightfully so, she talked back to the Director and when she grabbed her ear to twist it, she stubbornly called her a  сука . But hey, she was a kid.)

Instead of chasing her away like the streetrat she looked like, he closed the shop for an hour and gave her a burger and a plate of fries. She learned that his name was Jeff and he smelled of booze and cashews. He had a long salt and pepper beard and a mustache that hid his mouth and a bit of a southern accent which made her wonder what he was doing in New York City.

He seemed lonely, the kind of lonely where it’s all you know so you don’t think to ever talk about. The kind of lonely where you just live with it and occasionally the right people will bother to notice. But Ares didn’t say much, so she never asked. She did something else however — She came back the next day. And soon, it became a part of her schedule. She went to see him every day and in return, he’d give her lunch. It was a quiet, regular transaction.

Then one day, while she was kicking her ripped-jean legs on the barstool, black docs hitting the bars and little hands shoveling steak fries into her mouth, he had asked her a question.

“You ever get into trouble, Ares?”

She shrugged.

“You seem to.”

The kid couldn’t argue, she just nodded.

“You wanna learn how to defend yourself?”

Of course she did. Only the boys got to do that at the theatre.

To her surprise for such a informal looking man, Jeff was a great teacher. He always made sure she took breaks even when she didn’t want to, always made sure she stayed hydrated. At the end  of the day, was pretty efficient in his teachings. He never spoke about a family but on the mantle of his office, there was a photo of him with less of a beard and his arm thrown around a much younger man in a military outfit. They both seemed to be laughing. Ares figured it out from there.

She was twelve. Jeff died two years later. Life is suffering.

* * *

By the time she turned eighteen, she was ruthless. Some of the other orphan girls were even afraid of her, unsettled by her ethic and how she buried any expected emotion beneath a cold gaze and little speech. Some less driven were too insecure of their own work, mistook it for lack of their own talent, and that would lead to jealousy and  that would lead to a group of girls cutting Ares’ hair at night during the burnout hours were she’d be deeply unconscious, which Ares saw as a form of cheating. It was cowardly, come at her with scissor when she was  awake .

However, to their annoyance, she eventually came to enjoy it and embody the style. Her cinnamon locks got in the way far too often. Their instructor didn't stop them. Ares knew far too well they weren't going to stop on their own. She kept her hair short but couldn’t keep away the green-eyed bitches in her ranks.

So she slept with one of them and beat the sin of envy out of their girlish leader; shut her hand in a door and shattered the bones in her dainty fingers. The pretty, closeted girl from before, Yekaterina, just gazed in shock, not helping as their ring leader shrieked and cursed at her in thick Russian. Ares felt impressive, turning to offer her a subtle smile, a reminder that she hadn't forgotten about the night they had in one of the corridors of the house. The third girl got let off with a warning. She didn't learn the other two's names, the point of this was to _prevent_ contact, not invite more of it.

The Director even seemed pleased as she snapped the girl's bones in place, or the ones still salvageable. It was like ballet, a performance. All performances had a story to go home with; a  lesson to learn by the end, or at least to the dancers portraying it — And Madam looked at Ares like she finally learned hers.

Life is suffering. If you want something done, do it yourself.

They never bothered her again.

* * *

Given her fresh age of majority, and the unique form of progress she’s shown over the years far past ballet and fighting, the Director had sat her down with an opportunity. Nothing concrete. Nothing demanded of her. But a simple suggestion, if you will, something to think about.

A year later, she met Santino D’antonio. And he was a pompous douchebag from the beginning. But where some would find it infuriating, Ares found it nothing less than humorous.

“Your tie is loose.” he smirked.

_ That won’t be the only thing lose when I put my foot up his ass. _

Ares’ hands didn’t respond yet, only rose to straighten and tighten her tie. She smiled to punctuate the act.

“Are you new in this business?”

[ Not exactly. ]

“You seem efficient enough.” Santino takes a single step in her direction so he can speak more privately with her amongst his other men. He reaches beneath his blazer where he produces a small throwing knife, extended towards her to take. “You see the man in the gray suit?” he nods over his shoulder, never breaking eye contact with his potential new right hand.

She nods.

“He stole money from me.”

[ Did he? ]

“He did-” 

The very moment he confirms that, the knife is suddenly _whipped_ past his head and stuck into the shoulder of the aforementioned thief. Ares doesn’t check her work but stares at the man in front of her for approval for that's all she actually gives a damn about right now. She hears the cries and groans of anguish behind him like the applause after a dance. He smiles at her before turning around to look. This is when Ares sees what she's done to him.

The perfect shot. Nothing messy. She barely tore the fabric of his suit more than an inch or two.

“You’re hired. Send your Director my regards.”

* * *

That perfect sleep schedule threatens to falter after his death. Ares wakes up with a headache. She isn't hungover (she didn't even finish her second drink), she just didn't get to sleep. Images of different tactical approaches and plans had flooded her mind all night, how she'd do it, how she'd be better than the last attempt, how she wouldn't _fail_ this time around.

How she wouldn't let this boss down as she so carelessly had the last one.

When the Adjudicator strode from Ares' hotel room the night prior, the reverb of their clicking leather heels a chorus tempo in the Continental halls, they had left her off with a _good evening_ and a glance of satisfaction, one that stuck with Ares and filled her blood with adrenaline while she tried desperately to sleep. For hours, she writhed and wrangled the silk white sheets around the tone of her body. Needless to say it was not a good evening. However, a quick ambien did the trick, the recruit knowing damn well she couldn't have this deteriorated of a sleep schedule if she was going to start training.

Now that same Ambien has of course left her groggy and in search of coffee. The bar is empty save for Addy who's working the breakfast shift. Morning alcoholics fall in and out of the bar, getting a head start on their buzz. They'll be dead before the days out.

"Good morning. Dark roast, 3 sugars, hun?"

[ 4 today. Thanks Addy. ] With her free hand, Ares is massaging her temples. The whites of her eyes are no longer white but pink with irritation.

"And a motrin?"

[ Please. ]

"Course." The brunette walks off to retrieve a few tablets, a gentle smile gracing her face. Ares has always liked her.

"Sleep well?"

_Oh fantastic_. Ares turns her head to the new voice and finds herself in the same position as the previous night, only with less chatter and more sunlight beaming in through the windows, turning her short chestnut hair a glaze of amber. The Adjudicator stares at her, patiently awaiting her response.

The back doors open and her drink and painkillers are gently slid up to her hands. Ares pops both tabs and swigs down the hot beverage, the heat of the mug warming her fingertips.

[ Sit down, we're going to be here a minute. ] she dares to order.

The Adjudicator raises a brow and takes their previous seat, seeing no reason to force her out to their car just yet.

[ I slept fine. ]

"You aren't required to lie to me, in fact it is discouraged. I assume you're experiencing the after morning side effects of a high dosage sleeping pill." They pause and turn to look Ares over. "Ambien, I'm assuming?"

_They're good._ Ares nods once, staring forward at a bottle of gin set in the center of the shelf before her. It's something to look at that isn't them. If they can determine what drugs she took the night before by pure body language alone, Ares doesn't want to risk granting them the windows of her eyes.

". . We _would_ have had John Wick executed on sight." They speak of this like it would have done Ares a favor. "Unfortunately, the owner of this hotel is an old friend of his and found himself bending the rules at his own volition." they grouse, nearly rolling their eyes as they turn to watch their new co-worker.

[ I'll take care of it. ] Ares glares forward and wraps her hands around her coffee, lifting it to her lips and letting the steam hug her nose.

She feels the laser gaze of the Adjudicator behind her. "I'm sure you will." they say.

Life is suffering. If you want something done, you do it yourself.


End file.
